


Like the city, we never sleep

by badxwolfxrising



Category: Dead Like Me, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Coping, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, DUN DUN, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Grief, Grim Reapers, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Maniac, Mental Health Issues, Multi, New York City, Or do they?, Past Abuse, Philosophy, Psychological Trauma, Psychology, Reader Discretion is Advised, Russian Doll - Freeform, Therapy, Trauma, but they continue living in the afterlife, hardcore flirtation, in a physical and metaphorical sense, mental health, so basically everyone in this story dies, the good place - Freeform, this story may contain strong language and sexual situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badxwolfxrising/pseuds/badxwolfxrising
Summary: How fast we burnHow fast we cryThe more we learnThe more we dieThe more we learnThe more we cryHow fast we burnHow fast we die-"Teen Angst"Everybody dies. Some people go somewhere better, some don't, and some become grim reapers, responsible for collecting the souls of the newly dead and ushering them to the afterlife. In Manhattan's Lower East Side, Jack Harkness supervises a small group of misfit reapers in the External Influence division. Newly dead reaper Rose Tyler is about to find out the hard way that if you don't heal what hurt you that you'll end up bleeding on people who didn't cut you, but also that losing everything is sometimes just the beginning to becoming what you were always meant to be.A Doctor Who/Dead Like Me Crossover AU with flavors of Russian Doll, Maniac, and The Good Place thrown in. TW/CW for discussion of and references to death/dying, abuse/violence, emotional trauma, and other sensitive topics, and how we as human beings process and cope with those things. Tags will be added as they become relevant. **If you have questions about specific triggers please reach out to me via comments or on tumblr @badxwolfxrising**





	1. episode one

The deadliest day of the week by far is Saturday, it turns out. More people die on Saturday than any other day of the week, and there are more motor fatalities and firearm-related deaths on the weekend days in general. The most dangerous week of the year is the very first week, with January 1st being the most dangerous day of that week. If you speculate on why this might be and decided to search it, you’ll more than likely find that your suspicions are at least partially correct. More people kill themselves on Monday than any other day of the week, followed by Tuesday according to the CDC, proving that Garfield doesn’t hate Mondays quite as much as some other people. Sundays though are apparently reserved for murder, according to the statistics on homicide, and some old dead guys probably have a lot of theories about why that is. If you decide to Google it, you might be surprised by what you find, or maybe you actually won’t be at all, depending upon what sort of a person you are. No one here is judging you. At least not yet, anyway.

Rose Marion Tyler, the only daughter of Peter Tyler (d. 1987) and Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Tyler (neé Prentice), was born on Monday, the 27th of April 1987, at an old London hospital south of the Thames. According to a file in a long forgotten and dusty old administrative file, she died on a Saturday, the 8th of July. The year, location, and manner of death were all (in)conveniently smudged into oblivion by something that vaguely resembled ash mixed with machine grease of some kind.

* * * * *

_“If ‘manners maketh man’ as someone said_  
_Then he’s the hero of the day_  
_Takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile  
_ _Be yourself, no matter what they say…”_

Jamie McCrimmon pounded pavement down 5th Avenue, a crumpled yellow sticky note clutched in his hand, the headphones dangling around his neck broadcasting an almost insufferably tinny rendition of Sting’s “Englishman in New York” as he ran towards his destination. He barely had five minutes to make it to the corner of 14th and Park Avenue and if he was late for yet another appointment that month it would be a miracle if his boss didn’t dangle him headlong off the Brooklyn Bridge. Darting into traffic with barely a glance, he ignored the wrathful honking of several angry cab drivers and nearly avoided being clipped by an MTA bus turning the corner. The battered digital watch on his wrist read 9:33 AM, just three minutes til the ETD scrawled on the sticky note in his hand. He plowed forwards, artfully dodging other pedestrians with the practiced ease of someone who had grown accustomed to city running. He arrived in front of Union Square Park with a minute to spare and frantically scanned the scene, assessing for the most obvious risk factors. A city worker on a utility pole, examining an electrical box without gloves. An unattended child toddling too close to the street. A mediocre street performer, juggling knives with an obvious lack of confidence. Professor Plum, in the library, with the wrench. It was like an impossible, bastard version of Clue or maybe even Guess Who?, where the stakes were quite literally life and death.

That was the problem though with a job like his in a city like New York-there were too many people, too many risk factors, and very little useful information provided to him about his targets. How was he supposed to find one J. Smith in front of a crowded Manhattan park? He might as well have been looking for needles in a haystack and it hardly seemed fair. He had half a mind to request a transfer upstate to where it was less densely populated, or maybe somewhere warmer, with beaches. He heard San Jose was nice in the winter and he hadn’t been out west in awhile, not since before he’d died. It would be nice to watch the sunset in California again. The pictures in the travel magazines he’d steal out of the doctor’s offices always had the most beautiful pictures of Malibu or Long Beach sunsets, the colors more intense than ever due to the increased pollution. He could take up skateboarding to work, or maybe learn to surf. A regular ol’ west coast vagabond, he’d be.

A wet thud and a chorus of horrified shrieks interrupted his rueful daydreaming of white sand beaches and warm waters and he watched with dismay as the street performer collapsed forward onto the pavement, one of his own knives sticking out of his chest. If he’d collapsed backwards instead he might have survived, but the weight of his body falling face first onto the pavement just drove the knife in deeper, puncturing his lung.

“Bollocks,” Jamie muttered under his breath, pushing through the crowd that had gathered around the body. “I’m a paramedic, let me through!” Kneeling by the body, he pretended to check the performer’s non-existent pulse. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, running his fingers down the dead man’s arm, releasing his soul. He got to his feet, mumbling about how he needed to call into dispatch to report the accident. Stepping away from the body, he found J. Smith’s spirit lingering on the fringe of the crowd, looking on at his own corpse in morbid fascination, as most of the newly dead were prone to do.

“Am I dead?” he asked, turning to look at Jamie.

He nodded. “I’m afraid so, mate.”

The street performer appraised him skeptically. “Are you Death?”

“No, I’m just his errand boy,” Jamie chuckled. “Sorry I didn’t make it here sooner, but if you could not mention that I was late in the customer satisfaction survey, I’d appreciate it.”

J. Smith seemed perplexed. “There’s a customer satisfaction survey...for dying?”

“Gosh, I hope not,” Jamie said, putting his arm around the dead man’s shoulders and subtly guiding him further away from the scene of his untimely demise. “Else I’ll probably be in a lot of trouble one of these days. I was just joking, trying to lighten the mood a little. Is it working?”

The dead man looked at him, incredulous. “I’m fucking dead, what do you think?”

“Right. Well you know what they say, onwards and upwards. And it’s time for you to go upwards J. Smith, up into the Great Beyond, the Fields of Elysium, Nirvana, Valhalla, Heaven or whatever pleasant concept of the afterlife you prefer,” Jamie told him, plastering what he hoped was an encouraging smile onto his face. He just wanted to get to the coffee shop before they ran out of the cold sweet cream cold brew he enjoyed so much and the faster J. Smith moved on, the better.

“Sorry, what did you call me?” the dead man asked.

“J. Smith?” Jamie replied, his voice and smile faltering. “Sorry, I don’t know your first name. Head office doesn’t tell us that, just your first initial, last name, a location, and the estimated time of death. See?” he said, showing the man the sticky note that contained his fate.

“My name ain’t J. Smith, pal. It’s Dante Presutti. And that Post-It says 17th St, not 14th. Is this some kind of fuckin’ joke?” the street performer asked, the lines on his ghostly face hardening.

Jamie’s face fell as he examined the sticky note and realized that Dante was correct-what he’d initially misread as a 4 was most definitely a 7, 17th St and Park Ave, the complete opposite corner of the park. “Oh, fuck,” he said, gently but with emphasis.

* * * * *

_“I woke up stronger than ever_  
_Driven by big waves of fire_  
_To run and yell all the way  
_ _Nothing can hurt me today…”_

“You’re lucky,” Rose told herself when she woke to her alarm playing Steve McQueen and the ceiling above slowly dripping onto her forehead, in the closet that constituted a bedroom in the fifth floor walk up she shared with six other people. She repeated this mantra when she finally made it into the bathroom behind somebody’s one-night-stand and found that there was no more loo roll and the shower was completely out of hot water. Then once again when she discovered that one of her asshole flatmates had eaten the last of her English muffins. Plenty of people would kill for a place in the East Village for under a $1000 a month, she told herself as she dashed to make the train to work. Who cared if her bedroom was actually a storage area underneath the stairs and if her flatmates called her Shari Potter? It was worth it all, to be able to say she lived in New York City. It was worth it all, to take her easel to the park on an afternoon off, to people watch as much as to paint. And it was especially worth it all not to be beholden to her no-account wanker ex-boyfriend, Jimmy bloody Stone.

She just had to keep the faith that one day, she would finally claw her way out of the cage and into something better. Folding clothes in a department store and making lattes while she hoped to get into art school wasn’t exactly living the dream, but it could be worse. She could be dead, or living in Brooklyn, or still with Jimmy, who had sucked her dry in more ways than one. The wanna be rockstar was an emotional vampire who had drained her bank account as surely as he’d drained her self-esteem and patience. Every time she had dared to speak up for herself and suggest maybe he could treat her differently or please not use her paycheck on whiskey and lottery tickets, he’d somehow manage to flip the script and have her apologizing to him for being so selfish and ungrateful. Four months ago she had managed to slip his grip when he’d been arrested during a robbery gone wrong. By the time he’d gotten out on bail, she’d already changed her mobile number, packed up the few things she owned, and fled across the city to stay with a coworker, hopefully without leaving a trace.

Rose had lucked out getting the smallest room, as she paid a significantly smaller portion of the $6000 a month rent, a mere $600 compared to the $2000 her coworker and their girlfriend paid for the master suite. It didn’t always feel like it, but she knew she really was fortunate. So many people got stuck with no means to get out, even if they wanted to. Rose had coincidentally happened to know a bleeding heart in need of a roommate in one of the most expensive cities in the country at the exact time that she needed to get away from an abusive relationship. If things were even a little bit different, she might still be doing Jimmy’s laundry and dishes and praying for the few nights a week where he came home drunk and managed to keep his hands to himself. So she was thankful for her her asshole flatmates, even when they ate the last of her English muffins, because she knew they all paid a little bit more so she could afford to live there with them. There were a lot of things she was willing to forgive to be allowed to feel like a phoenix coming up out of the ashes. Every starving artist cliche she lived out loud felt like a gift, just part of her life starting over after Jimmy, where even the worst days on her own seemed worlds better than the months that had preceded them, cowering to Jimmy’s unpredictable, drunken spirals.

She arrived at the subway station, grateful but hungry, and purchased a small iced coffee from the Vietnamese bakery around the corner from the entrance. With the amount of sweetened condensed milk and cinnamon she added to it, coffee practically constituted a meal, and was much more readily available than properly made tea. Savoring the strong but sweet concoction, she picked her way carefully down the steps to the underground and was reaching for her Metrocard when someone touched her shoulder. Her head whipped around, heart already pounding, but it was just an older woman. “Can I help you?” she asked, her irritation masking the fear she’d first felt when being tapped on the shoulder.

“Ms. Tyler?” the woman asked. 

Rose immediately went into defense mode. What if Jimmy had finally sent somebody to look for her? “Who’s asking?” she questioned, her tone hard.

“I’m a courier. Are you Ms. R. M. Tyler?” the woman asked again.

Rose was still unsure. “...maybe?” she replied. “Is R.M. Tyler being sued? Because if so, no, I’m definitely not her. Them.”

The woman smiled. “You aren’t being sued. What’s the ‘R.M.’ stand for?”

“Rose Marion...,” Rose found herself answering before she really even stopped to think why she was admitting this to a stranger who had shown her no credentials and who she didn’t know from Adam, although she had one of those weirdly familiar faces that she couldn’t quite place.

The woman handed her an envelope, thumb brushing over her wrist and sending a chill down Rose’s spine. “You better hurry Rose, you don’t want to miss your train.”

“Thanks?” she said, accepting it with vexation. She swiped her Metrocard and opened the envelope while she stood waiting on the platform. There was a single blue sticky note inside, with a scrawled message all in lowercase cursive: your father is proud of you. Rose surreptitiously looked back towards the stairs, but the woman who had given her the strange gift was gone. Mystified, she held the note and boarded her train.

She never made it to her 9am shift.

* * * * *  
_“I hope you got your things together_  
_I hope you are quite prepared to die_  
_Looks like we're in for nasty weather_  
_One eye is taken for an eye…”_

_ __ _

_ __ _

Donna stood in line at the falafel cart, tapping her foot impatiently along to the beat of the music pouring out of a nearby car. The thirty-five minute lunch period the pedants at the temp agency had deemed was a sufficient enough break time was ticking by at lightning speed compared to the four torturous hours that had preceded it and if the line didn’t start to move a little faster she was going to be late for her reap. She glanced down at the Post-It again and confirmed that she was at the correct intersection. If she didn’t get this damn falafel before 12:37 PM, she was going to end up guiltily cramming Snickers and stale crackers into her face hole in the break room again. It was becoming a vicious cycle, where her reaps somehow always coincided with at least one meal of the day and she’d end up sitting at her day job, hangry and ready to fight anyone who looked at her sideways. At 12:33 it was finally her turn and she eagerly stepped up to the cart. “Number five, extra white sauce, light hot sauce, and a diet Coke please.”

“Five dollars,” the man advised as he began prepping her order.

Over the cook’s shoulder, Donna could just about read the name on the battered ServSafe certificate affixed to the side of the cart with peeling packing tape. The first name was illegible under a smear of grease, but the last name was visible: _Ahmad_. Her eyes scanned between the sticky note in her hand and the certificate and she frowned as she confirmed what she had already started to suspect. “Bollocks,” she whispered, trading a crumpled ten dollaer bill for a fragrant, steaming bag of food. “’I’ve been buying food from you for months, but I don’t think I ever asked your name. I’m Donna, and you…?”

Hurriedly, he counted the change back into her hand. “Name’s Amir,” he said brusquely, in the sort of tone that begged her not to ask him his life story during the lunch rush.

She smiled, and tucked her change into the tip jar. The crumpled sticky note in her other hand read _A. Ahmad_ in her boss’s severe script. “You’re the best halal cart this side of Washington Square Park, Amir. I almost don’t miss the curries from back home when I eat your food,” she said. Her fingers brushed against his wrist as she withdrew and he paused for a moment, giving her a curious look.

“Hey, thank you. Appreciate it,” he replied, gesturing to the next customer to step forward. “Next!”

“Take care,” she said meaningfully, retreating to a bench about twenty feet away to see how the next minute played out in fate. The falafel sandwich smelled too enticing to allow it to cool down; she was dabbing yogurt sauce off of her chin with a cheap paper napkin when honking horns and shrieking metal heralded Amir Ahmad’s fate. An out of control delivery truck came careening the wrong way down the street, weaving and honking wildly before it smashed full force into the side of the food cart, crushing Amir inside the flimsy metal frame and barely missing the customer waiting for their food.

“I just paid that blasted thing off,” he told her sadly as they watched the rescue team try to pull his body out of the crumpled remains of his cart.

“Bummer mate. But hey, you won’t need to worry about working where you’re going,” she said sympathetically.

“And where am I going...?” he asked her, his voice trailing off as the New York City skyline behind Donna’s head morphed into something else entirely. 

“That’s not for me to know,’ she answered, smiling sadly. She refused to turn and watch him walk towards his lights and get a glimpse of yet another man’s heaven. The constant reminder that she was basically stuck in purgatory was enough to make a girl more bitter than bad convenience store coffee. 

Not to mention she was going to need to find a new lunch spot.

* * * * *

Rose woke up by the side of the water with a vicious headache, a taste like metal in the back of her throat, and no memory of how she got there. She remembered taking the train downtown, remembered getting off at Fulton Street, and then ...nothing. It was dark and she was alone, except for the man and woman sitting on a crop of rocks, staring at her expectantly. The man was humming something that sounded like the Smiths under his breath, which was somehow terrifyingly apropos.

“Where am I?” she asked, her voice like rusty gears cranking back to life.

“On the New York side of the Hudson River, just outside of Harlem. Be thankful you didn’t end up in New Jersey,” the man said, jumping down from the rock. He strolled towards her with a leisurely. Purpose that was quite unnerving coming from a complete stranger.

“Why’s that?” she asked warily, refusing the hand he offered and instead struggling to pick herself off the slick, muddy grass.

“Besides the fact that it’s New Jersey? You wouldn’t be in his district,” the woman answered, coming to stand beside them. “And he so does love the cute one, cutie.”

None of this was making any sense to Rose. It was morning when she’d left, and it was evening now, so at least twelve hours later given the late sunsets of summer. Her memories of the day were hazy and these two strangers were acting like they had personal business with her on the side of a goddamn river. “How did I get here? And who the hell are you two?”

The man smiled uncomfortably and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah...I’d normally tell you to sit down, but there’s not really anywhere to do that, so I’m just gonna cut to the chase. I’m Jack Harkness, this is my associate, River Song. We’re grim reapers and you, Rose Marion Tyler, are deceased.”

“I’m what now?” she asked, uncomprehending. She had heard what he said, but the words didn’t make sense hitting her ears. How could she be dead and still be standing here, talking to this weirdo? It all had to be some kind of awful joke.

“You’re deceased. Dead. Discorporated. No longer living,” Jack reiterated. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you were killed tonight.”

“Hardy har, asshole. Quit joking and tell me what really happened,” she demanded, her patience wearing thin. Something was wrong...gravely wrong. Every alarm bell in her body should’ve been screaming and sending danger signals to her brain, but instead she just felt...nothing.

“I’m afraid he’s telling the truth, dear,” the woman said sadly. “I know it’s hard to cope with, having your life unexpectedly cut short, happens to the best of us. But you are dead. Well, undead, if you like. You’re like us now. A grim reaper.

“This is a joke, right? Did Jimmy put you up to this?” she asked, refusing to believe the absurd things the strangers were saying. Obviously she wasn’t dead. Dead people didn’t have conversations on the side of dark river banks with strangers she insisted to herself, even as her brain quietly reminded her that there was at least one, if not more mythos, where exactly that happened, and she was guessing the Hudson outside Harlem at night could probably give the River Styx a run for its money on the fear factor portion of the program.

“Look, I understand it’s hard to accept, and normally in a situation like this I’d offer to let you watch your autopsy or go to your funeral to come to grips with everything, but unfortunately that’s not a luxury we have,” Jack said, spreading his palms to indicate his helplessness in the situation. “Your body, the physical body you inhabited while you were alive, is currently at the bottom of the Hudson River, with cinder blocks tied around your ankles. It may be a while yet before anyone finds you, your roommates haven’t even realized you’re missing yet so no one is looking for you. It’s awful and rotten and I’m truly sorry, but that’s how the cookie crumbled, Rosie. You were murdered, taken before your time. It’s tragic, but it’s true. As that old New York boy Billy Joel used to sing, only the good die young.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered furiously. Any moment now, the camera crew would bust out of the bushes. Any moment now, someone would tell her this was all just a joke and explain what was actually happening.

Jack smiled sadly. “That’s the worst part about it, Rosie. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, you’re still dead as punk rock.”

“Stop calling me Rosie!” she snapped. “If I’m really dead, how come I don’t remember dying? Seems like a big deal, feel like I’d sorta remember something major and important like that happening to me.”

“Because another reaper yanked out your soul before you were killed. It’s a courtesy we provide to those who die extremely violent or traumatic deaths. You’ll remember eventually, when you’re ready to process it,” River explained with the exaggerated patience of someone dealing with a stubborn toddler. “In normal circumstances you would cross over, but your reaper met her quota and moved on herself, so now you’ll take her place. It’s the circle of life and death, as it were. Think of it as the community service of the afterlife.”

She wanted to deny it, but she remembered the strange woman at the subway station, the chill that had gone down her spine, the even stranger note, and somehow she just knew that they were telling the truth. “But it’s not fair! I’m practically still a kid! I’m starting my whole life over. I just paid my stupid bloody rent! If I knew I was gonna die this week I would’ve gone out and done something fun or had a nice last meal or gone home to see my mom or...I don’t know. It’s just not fair!” she reiterated tearfully.

“Of course it isn’t fair,” River soothed, putting an arm around her shoulder and slowly guiding her away from the water. “But look on the bright side. Being a reaper is like getting a second chance, to do all the things you wanted to do while living, but couldn’t. Within reason, of course. I know it’s hard to see it right now, but there’s a silver lining to all this. You still have a shot at a new life, albeit a very different one. But much like life, the afterlife is what you make of it.”

“Who killed me?” she blurted out, feeling stupid for not asking this most obvious question already. Jack had told her she had been murdered. _Murdered!_ How was that even possible? 

River and Jack exchanged an uneasy glance before Jack began to speak, carefully. “Well that’s the thing...we don’t exactly know. We never know when another reaper’s quota will be met, so when your reaper never showed back up, we knew we had to come find you. We didn’t see who dumped you into the river, we got here after they’d already left, unfortunately. We think you were actually alive probably up until about an hour or two ago.”

“So if you had noticed something went wrong sooner, you could’ve saved me?” she asked coolly. 

“It doesn’t work like that!” Jack said vehemently. “You were always going to die, regardless. Your time of death was written in the books. Once that happens, only a miracle can stop you from dying. I’m sorry, but it is what it is. River and I couldn’t have saved you if we wanted to. Harriet had already reaped your soul and besides, interfering in another person’s death can cause serious consequences.”

“Serious consequences?” she laughed sarcastically. “Like what? I fucking _live_? Who even decided that I was supposed to die? God? Harriet? This is rubbish!”

Jack nodded sympathetically. “I agree, it’s rubbish, you were much too cute to die. But you know what’s not rubbish? Matzo ball soup. It will heal what ails you. C’mon, let’s go to Sarge’s, my treat.”

Rose was incredulous. “You just told me I’m dead, that I was murdered, and you think a bowl of fucking _soup_ is gonna make me feel better? You’re off your rocker, mate!” she spat, stomping away.

“Where are you going?” Jack asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“None of your damn business, you psychotic weirdo!” she shouted back at him.

River jogged after her and caught her gently by the arm. “You can’t go home, Rose. You _are_ dead. If you go home, all your friends are gonna see is a stranger who looks and sounds nothing like you. You’ll just upset and confuse them, trust me. Also...I don’t think you’re gonna get all the way back to the East Village in bare feet with no money. Please...come with me and Jack to Sarge’s. You can meet some of the other reapers and we can try and explain a bit more.”

Rose looked down and observed that River was correct-she wasn’t wearing any shoes. The jeans and vest top she’d put on that morning were torn, covered in something black that might have been silt or blood or both. “I’m so lost. If my body is at the bottom of the river...how am I wearing the clothes I supposedly died in?”

River floundered for an answer, but was saved when Jack reappeared beside them. “You’d have to to ask the showrunners that one,” he helpfully interjected, pointing skywards. “There’s a change of clothes for you in the car. Matzo ball soup, maybe a pastrami sandwich because I’ve starving. Let’s go.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” Rose replied brusquely.

River patted her shoulder. “Don’t let the calm demeanor fool you, sweetie. The soup isn’t optional, it’s a rite of passage. C’mon now, you’ve got the rest of the afterlife to sulk, but you still have to eat. Self-care comes first.”


	2. episode two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before she had a chance to take her first sip of soup, a curvaceous, red-headed tornado had landed on the bench right next to her, invading every last inch of her personal space. Now she was sandwiched between Jack and the other woman and it was all about a thousand degrees outside of her comfort zone for that particular moment. The woman reached over to grab a menu and she finally lost her cool as her last boundary was pushed to the limit.
> 
> “I know I’m dead, but am I fucking invisible too? Do you mind?” Rose snapped, grabbing her bowl to keep the soup from splashing all over the table.

It was like a scene from a movie, or maybe a nightmare. Saturday night, Manhattan, a bustling diner, the sounds of people living and laughing amidst a cacaphony of clinking glasses and silverware. All of them oblivious that the dead were among them, that she was having the absolute worst day of her life (afterlife, she corrected herself in her head) and that she couldn’t remember any of it. It was like being at the bottom of an open grave with no idea how you got there. How could they sit there, oblivious? How could they all be so happy while she was sitting there feeling like she was a ragdoll being torn asunder by a stroppy child? How had she never noticed just how goddamn loud New York was? 

She closed her eyes and tried to tune out the people talking around her, focusing on the way the cracked vinyl booth felt against the bare skin of her thighs. Grabbing the hem of the ridiculously short skirt River had given her, she shifted uncomfortably, self-conscious that her hip was very nearly pressed against Jack’s. Realistically, the clothes she’d been given weren’t all that different than something she might have picked out for herself, but right now she suspected that she’d still probably feel a similar sense of nakedness in jeans and a tshirt. It was an awful feeling, to feel so exposed and vulnerable and surrounded by complete strangers. All she wanted was her bed, and her mum. _Her mum_. Would her mother even know what had happened to her only daughter? Or would she just sit at home maudlin, wondering why her only child didn’t care enough to call? Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes just thinking about it.

“Listen kid, you better eat that soup before Jamie gets here. He’s a poacher,” Jack warned, pushing the bowl of matzo ball soup closer to her. 

Across the table, River rolled her eyes. “Don’t let him lull you into a false sense of security Rose, give it five minutes and he’ll be asking you if you’re gonna eat that. I know you don’t feel like it because you’re all inside your head right now, but you’d probably have an easier time processing if you gave your body some fuel. Just try a little bit, if you don’t like it we’ll get you something else, alright?”

“S’pose so,” she mumbled, leaning into the steam with a sigh. The savory aroma of the broth was familiar and comforting, reminiscent of the homemade chicken soup her mum used to make when she was little and had a cold or fever. The memory was a barb in her heart, but it was an entirely different sort of pain than trying to cope with a reality where Rose Marion Tyler didn’t exist anymore. This pain was fresh and raw and tingled in a way that the numbness of her death didn’t. It was a welcome relief, and she finally picked up her spoon, gripping it like a talisman. 

After all, she did have to eat.

“Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come.”

Before she had a chance to take her first sip of soup, a curvaceous, red-headed tornado had landed on the bench right next to her, invading every last inch of her personal space. Now she was sandwiched between Jack and the other woman and it was all about a thousand degrees outside of her comfort zone for that particular moment. The woman reached over to grab a menu and she finally lost her cool as her last boundary was pushed to the limit.

“I know I’m dead, but am I fucking invisible too? Do you mind?” Rose snapped, grabbing her bowl to keep the soup from splashing all over the table.

River interrupted at that moment, shooting the redhead a meaningful look before she could say something snarky. “Donna, this is Rose. She was murdered a few hours ago and she’s not having a great time right now. Rose, this is Donna Noble. She’s a reaper, like me and Jack.”

Donna pursed her lips and opened her mouth, finger poised to make a point, her eyes traveling between River, Rose, and Jack. “Sorry for your loss,” she finally said, sliding down the bench away from Rose. Turning her gaze toward Jack she asked, “Where are the others?”

Jack looked down at his lap and stirred his coffee. “Jamie’s running late and Harriet isn’t coming. She got her lights this morning, Rose is her replacement.”

The temperature in their immediate vicinity felt like it dropped at least fifteen degrees. Around them the conversations lulled, almost as though the other diners could sense the tension that had spontaneously arisen. Rose’s stomach twisted into knots, her inner monologue the voice of a cartoon child nervously chuckling, _”I’m in danger.”_”

Donna blinked and when she finally spoke her voice was so low it was practically inaudible. “Wot now?”

River reached across the table and placed her hand over top of Donna’s sympathetically. “I’m so sorry sweetie, I know she was like a mother to you.”

“Don’t touch me!” Donna hissed, snatching her hand out from underneath River’s and swiping furiously at her cheeks. “Don’t touch me, we aren’t even friendly like that. Jack, do you have a Post-It for me?”

Jack hesitated. “I do. But it’s not for another sixteen hours, you’ve got some time if you need it. I’ll be here for breakfast tomorrow morning around 7:30.” 

“Great, thanks. I’ll get it from you in the morning,” Donna mumbled as she slid out of the booth and began to stalk away.

“Donna, wait!” Jack called after her. “Do you think...could Rose stay with you for a bit? Until she finds a place of her own to stay?”

Donna’s face remained completely blank for a moment before she burst into incredulous laughter. “Are you flippin’ serious? Harriet’s gone, and you have the nerve to ask me if her bloody replacement can come stay with me, of all people? I live in a shitty studio apartment in Brooklyn, there’s barely room for me by myself, and I’d like to cry in peace. Why can’t she stay with you two?”

“Right. We’ll figure it out,” Jack said to Donna’s angrily retreating back.

River shook her head at him reprovingly. “Nice, Jack. Real smoothe.”

“Well...why can’t I stay with you and River?” Rose asked, turning to look at her new boss.

Jack smiled uncomfortably. “It’s just...River and I have a very...active extracurricular schedule outside of reaping. You’d never be able to get any rest at our place and that might be...overwhelming for you right now.”

“Really? Overwhelming for you or overwhelming for me? Because you told me I can’t go home and I kinda feel like being homeless and dead might be more overwhelming than just being dead,” Rose said, deadpan. It was an expression she suspected she might be honing to perfection in the near future.

“Sorry to interrupt...did you guys want more coffee?” the waitress interjected apologetically.

“Just bring a pot for the table and a whole buncha creamers, thanks Martha,” Jack said with the warmth of someone who was relieved for the reprieve. “By the way, how’d you do on that test you were telling me about last week?”

“The MCAT?” she said, grinning back. “I passed. The future Dr. Jones is in the house.”

“Hey that’s great!” Jack exclaimed, opening his wallet. He took out a $50 and slid it across the table to the waitress. “Take your congratulatory tip now, you’re gonna need it for all the late night coffee runs while you’re studying, and the crippling loan debt later.”

Martha gave an awkward chuckle. “Yeah, I had been trying not to have an existential crisis over that part, but thanks for reminding me. I’ll have that coffee for you in a few minutes, after I’m done crying in the walk-in.” 

The waitress bounded away and almost ran directly into a tall, skinny guy in a suit, whom she angrily hipchecked and then berated with the familiarity of family. The hapless man looked wounded, but not entirely surprised by the interaction. Catching Rose’s eye, he shrugged and made a ‘what can you do?’ sorta face at her. Blushing, she smiled and gave an awkward little wave. Nerdy professor wasn’t normally her type, but there was something boyishly charming about a freckled man wearing trainers with a tailored suit.

River looked back at Jack, stabbing her finger accusingly. “C’mon River, I’ve been dead longer than Winston Churchill, I don’t need to go to sensitivity training. I use fabric softener, I’m sensitive enough,” River said mockingly, in what with a shockingly accurate impression of either her boss and lover or Danny Zuko from _Grease_. “That’s the second woman you’ve sent running in less than ten minutes.”

“Alright, alright, point taken, maybe I could stand to polish the ol’ rough edges a little bit,” Jack groused begrudingly. “Maybe the new kid can stay with Jamie, he lives alone.”

“Not a damn kid,” Rose muttered, though no one seemed to hear her. Feeling like the new kid starting school in the middle of the year, she sank back into her seat and began pushing the matzo balls around with her spoon. There was no place for her in this conversation, not when everyone already knew everyone else and she had absolutely no frame of reference.

River’s eyebrows titled skeptically towards her forehead at Jack’s suggestion. “Jamie? Are you sure that’s a good idea? You know how he can get sometimes.”

Jack plastered an innocent expression on his face. “No River, I have no idea how Jamie can get sometimes. Do tell me what exactly you mean?”

“Oh c’mon, you know! He likes to half-arse everything and fly by the seat of his pants, which is fine I suppose for a seasoned reaper but maybe not the best role model for a new one. That, and you know what an awul flirt he is and...he’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?” River sighed, already turning to look behind her at the man in the suit, who had managed to stealthily creep up behind the table. “Oh hello there, sweetie.”

“Don’t you _hello sweetie_ me, you devious little minx,” the man said dryly, taking the seat next to River and across from Rose. “Now that we’re done trashtalking me, who needs a place to stay?”

“I do,” Rose blurted out, finally finding her voice. “I need a place to stay.”

“Oh?” he asked, giving her a dimpled smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Jamie McCrimmon, but my friends call me the Doctor. And you are?”

“Dead,” she stuttered, swallowing the nervous lump that had suddenly developed in the back of her throat. “Sorry. Rose. My name’s Rose, and I’m newly dead. Hello.”

“Hello, newly dead Rose,” he said, taking her hand as though he meant to shake it and instead kissing her knuckles at the last second. “Pleasure to meet you. Though I have to caution you, you might want to be careful talking about that out loud. The living tend to look at you crazy when you say stuff like that, even if it is true.”

Jack cleared his throat loudly. “Anyway...yes, this is Rose, our newest reaper. Upstairs must be clowning again, giving me yet another Brit, but nonetheless, here we are. Harriet’s moved on, Rose is replacing her, and she needs a place to stay until something else comes up. Think you could help us out?”

Jamie sighed theatrically. “I guess so.”

Jack smiled menacingly, teeth bared like a dog ready to fight. “You guess? It was a rhetorical question, space cadet. After this morning’s clusterfuck with the street performer, you damn well owe me one. I spent most of the morning and afternoon trying to smooth that one over, put my entire day behind schedule. That’s why River and I were late getting to...nevermind.”

“Maybe if your handwriting didn’t look like bloody chicken scratch,” Jamie muttered under his breath.

Rose shrank into herself, wishing she could altogether disappear. Witnessing a fight was awkward enough when you knew the people, but this was somehow worse, like peeking in a window and seeing something you weren’t meant to see. Thank God no one was asking her to take sides, that would be the living end. The waitress reappeared with a fresh carafe of coffee, and distributed cups and saucers to everyone but Jamie before stalking back off towards the kitchen.

“Can I get a coffee too? A menu? No? Okay,” Jamie asked helplessly as the waitress breezed passed him like he was a ghost. Jack and River tittered in unison at the exchange and were rewarded with a look that could melt ice from their coworker.

Rose’s slammed her spoon onto the table, palms sweating, a beat like drums pounding inside her head. “You’re all unbelievable,” she seethed, garnering surprised looks from the other reapers as they seemed to really see her for the first time that evening. “I guess this is all business as usual for you guys, but I fucking _died_ tonight. I was murdered, and I don’t know by who or what happened or anything else. I don’t know why I’m here with you all instead of heaven or hell or wherever you’re supposed to go when you die. When you found me at the river you said you were going to bring me here and explain, and so far the only thing you’ve done is squabble like a bunch of kids over which one of you assholes is going to have to be inconvenienced by having me stay with them on the worst fucking day I’ve ever had. I’m sorry my being dead is cramping your style, I wasn’t planning on getting murdered when I got on the train this morning. Save yourselves the argument, I’ll sleep on a park bench before I stay with any of you selfish wankers. Thanks for the bloody soup, Jack.”

As she stormed away from the table, she could hear River’s admonishment. “Third woman you’ve sent running in fifteen minutes. That’s some kind of record, even for you.”

Rose burst out onto the street, chest heaving and eyes burning, and resisted the urge to give a primal scream. 10:15 on a Saturday night in Manhattan, probably no one would bat an eye if she did. Instead, she started walking the direction of the subway before she remembered she no longer had her wallet or purse. Her dramatic exit had not been well-planned. She had no money, no phone, no home, and no idea who she was anymore. Everything she had thought she knew had changed in an instant, and no one had yet handed her a copy of the _Handbook for the Recently Deceased_. So far, dying was nothing like she expected, which wasn’t really saying much. 

Leaning against the side of a building for support, she paused, took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, and stared directly into the face of a stranger on the other side of the window. Startled, she jerked back and watched as the stranger behind the window did too. It took her a moment, but she realized she was seeing the feed from a security camera played on a television inside what seemed to be an electronics repair shop. Fascinated, she waved and watched the stranger’s reflection wave back at her, the newest development in an increasingly nightmarish evening. A voice called her name from down the block and she looked away from the television to see Jamie sprinting awkwardly towards her.

“Oh, well at least someone gives a fuck about me,” she remarked, barely loud enough to be heard over the ambient song of the city. Deep down inside though, a tiny part of her was pleased Jamie had been the one to come after her instead of River or Jack. For whatever reason, something about him seemed familiar and put her at ease.

Doubled over, he gasped as he caught his breath. “For someone...with...such short legs...you sure do walk fast.”

“Not fast enough, apparently,” she replied, crossing her arms. “What do you want?”

“What are you staring at?” he asked, squinting at the window. “Oh. Is this the first time you’ve seen your reflection since you died?”

She swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed with melancholy, and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Ah,” he said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, it’s jarring the first time. Seeing yourself and not recognizing the face looking back at you. You and I, we see each other as we are because we’ve both died. But the face on the television? That’s the one the living see. It’s just a mask of course, a clever disguise, to put them at ease. If they knew the dead walked amongst them or thought they were seeing ghosts...total chaos would erupt.”

She traced the outline of her jaw with her finger and watched the woman on the screen do the same. The stranger looked like she felt inside-a little worse for wear, like she’d seen some shit, none of it good. She was pale and brunette, her hair a shade of brown that was close to Rose’s own natural color if she let her roots go too long. It looked like it could stand a good brushing, same as her teeth. Staring back at her, the woman’s face was etched in lines that were somehow simultaneously hard and soft, sad, and difficult to look at. This was her now?

This was her now. Turning to look at Jamie, she asked, “Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Not as pretty as you,” he answered without hesitation.

“So why did you follow me again?” she asked, ignoring the compliment. She wanted to smile and flirt and return the compliment, but like herself, the gestures seemed hollow. It was strange. The one thing she wanted more than anything right now was some simple, familiar, human comfort, and here she was being cold and aloof to someone who was just trying to be patient and kind and maybe just a bit haplessly flirty with her.

Jamie jammed one hand into his pocket and scrubbed furiously at the back of his neck with the other. “To apologize. I don’t know what happened before I got to Sarge’s, but I wouldn’t have felt right letting you walk off so upset without checking to make sure you were okay. I mean, I know you aren’t okay, obviously. But I want you to know, you’re welcome to crash at my place for the time being. It’s a...it’s a ittle cramped, but we can make it work. Probably.”

“What does that even mean?” she asked, frowning as she crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly self-conscious about how much skin the borrowed top showed.

He rocked on his heels and scrubbed at the back of his neck. “Well…” he said, drawing the one syllable word out far longer than necessary. “It’s a microflat, for lack of a better term. It’s technically a studio, but it’s just barely 400 square feet. I have a fold out sofa and a Murphy bed so there’s space for both of us to sleep, but we’ll practically be on top of each other. I don’t mind, but I figure you should be aware.”

She cocked her eyebrows. “Be aware that you’ll be on top of me? I don’t think I’d mind that much either. I’ve had worse.”

He blushed furiously as his brain caught up with his gob. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I’m not...I’m not, I’m not a perv I swear, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that the place is small and we’d figuratively be on top of each other, not literally, although almost literally because like I said, it’s small...oh, fuck me and my stupid mouth, I’ll just shut up now.”

She interrupted his awkward inner-become-outer monologue. “I’d ask if you’d like some help digging your grave, but you seem to be doing just fine on your own.”

“Yep, got it, thanks,” he said, miming finger guns. “So um, I have a reap not too long from now. Fancy maybe grabbing a drink with me and waiting in the park?”

Shrugging, she offered him her arm. “Why not? I’ve got nothing but time.”

* * * * *

“You ever play fuck, marry, kill?” Rose asked, delighting just a little bit in his startled reaction to the question.

Jamie nearly choked on the cheap bourbon he was drinking directly from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. “I’m sorry, have I ever played _what now_?” he repeated dubiously.

“Me and my mates used to play this game called fuck, marry, kill,” she explained. “You’d rattle off three people and each person would have to say which of the three they’d fuck, marry, or kill. Usually we’d do it with celebrities or characters from our favorite TV shows, but sometimes we’d do it with the neighbors. I just keep thinking about it. All those people I ‘killed’. I wonder if any of them are dead now, or if it’s just me. I wonder if I jinxed myself joking about other peoples’ lives and assigning value to them on the basis of something as arbitrary as whether or not I’d like to fuck them.”

“Why would you ever call it fuck, marry, kill when you could call it bed, wed, behead instead?” he mused. “Missed opportunity there.”

“You’re the literal worst,” she said with no malice, hiding the smile creeping across her face by pretending to study something up in the trees.

“Shag, bag, drag?”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to slap you so hard you’ll think you died a second time.”

“Alright, one last one to get it out of my system. Bone, stone, die alone...ah fuck, I didn’t think that one through. Sorry.”

Rose groaned. “Have you ever had a thought you do think through before verbalizing?”

“Given the nature of my death, I feel like the only appropriate answer here is probably no,” he said with a shrug. “But you know it doesn’t work like that, though. It’s not karma. As good old New York boy himself Billy Joel said, only the good die young, Rose. So what if you fake killed a few ugly guys and fucked the pretty ones? It’s a stupid game you played with your mates, we all do stupid human things. It doesn’t mean you were a bad person and that’s not why you died. That’s not how death works. They keep score maybe, not not like that.”

“But it’s not only good, young people who die. We know that, if nothing else. Death does not discriminate, at least not in that regard. Maybe the game’s not why I died, not really. But stuff like that might be the reason we’re all reapers. Maybe this is like...I dunno. Penance. Purgatory. We reap until we’re redeemed,” she said.

“Well then I’m righteously fucked,” he chuckled, chasing the comment with a drink. “I’ve been at this for so long I can hardly remember, but it feels like 900 years. Sartre did say ‘hell is other people’, although I don’t think this is quite the sort of scenario good ol’ Jean-Paul was envisioning when he wrote that. Date, fellate, exsanguinate. Hey, that’s a good one!”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I like that your brain associates French existential philosophy with oral sex. There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

“What can I say? I’m an old genius trapped in a young man’s body. It’s the curse of the reaper, Rose,” he said in the sort of tone that was so melancholy you had to wonder if he was being serious or over-the-top sarcastic and dramatic. “I know more now that I’m dead than I ever did while I was living and it’s bloody depressing. If I knew then what I know now…”

Rose stared at her feet and plucked at the blades of grass. “Whoever killed me is still out there, Jamie. Presumably living free and clear, while I’m spending my afterlife sitting in a park with a dead guy waiting for other people to die. I’m nineteen years old, I hardly experienced anything. I worked so hard to be independent after Jimmy kicked me to the curb, to get into school, just to be murdered by some stranger. I’ll never fall in love, never get married, never have a family or a real career. It’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “But just like life, death isn’t fair either. The chips fall as they may. You know what you need to do? Go out and fuck somebody for real. It’ll make you feel better, I promise. Although ideally it would be somebody much prettier than the sad, nerdy bloke you’re currently hanging out with, really does wonders for the ego.”

“I’d rather shag a sad, nerdy bloke than a pretty boy any day. Although a pretty nerd boy...,” she said, accepting the bottle of bourbon from him in hopes it would give her some measure of courage. Taking a too big gulp, she grimaced and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “That tastes like paint thinner. If I weren’t already dead, I’d ask if you were trying to kill me.”

He scoffed and yanked the bottle back from her, taking a painfully long pull on it before he nestled it into a dip in the ground between them. “S’not that bad. I mean...it tastes bad, sure. And if we were alive, I’m sure continued consumption of it would probably give you cirrhosis or stomach ulcers. It’s just...it’s so awful that it almost tastes like I’m alive while I’m drinking it and for a moment I get to forget that I’m Death’s errand boy.”

“Well shit,” she said.

What Jamie had said was too real and she didn’t know how to respond. It still felt weird to talk of life in the past tense, and so casually too, like it was just another Tuesday. She supposed it probably was that way for Jack and Jamie and the others, some of whom had been dead and reaping longer than she’d even been alive. For her, the loss of her life was still raw, an open wound that refused to stop bleeding no matter how much pressure you put on it. She imagined it was probably not unlike the tingling sensation amputees described feeling at the place where their lost limbs had been. Even after it was gone, they still felt it there for weeks, sometimes even months and years later, an itch that could never properly be scratched, slowly driving you mad. She supposed she should be thankful she had died in America instead of at home in London, where she could’ve and would’ve tortured herself watching Jackie, Shireen, Mickey and the rest of her friends and family grieve her and not be able to reach out and comfort them. Or worse, watch them move on as though she had never existed at all. 

Here, it was almost easy enough to think of the afterlife as a sort of bad vacation and not a fixed point in time. Walking these streets reminded her more of her untimely death than her too brief life, having grown up in London and barely having spent a year in New York. New York was just as grungy and glamorous and uncanny in person as it was on TV, and after London its significantly more crowded neighborhoods were almost cozy. She understood why people were willing to literally or figuratively prostitute themselves for a third story walk up closet in Manhattan. Every day here felt like waking up on a movie set and nothing seemed impossible. But now she ould try to start over with no strings attached. The sad woman in the television wasn’t the same sad girl who had left Jimmy Stone a few months ago. No, she could be someone else entirely, and wasn’t that a comforting thought?

Jamie was pensive, sitting with his feet on the ground, his knees bent and drawn up around himself. He held the open bottle in his hand and it tipped precariously; miraculously, not a drop spilled onto the grass. “Did you really mean what you said? About shagging nerds instead of pretty boys?” he asked, the pout on his face indicating he clearly thought he was more one than the other.

“Oh Lord,” she sighed, catching hold of the bottle before it slipped out of his grasp. Steeling herself, she took as big of a sip as she could stomach, holding her nose as she did like a child taking cough medicine. “Before I dropped out, I shagged the prettiest boy at school. Jimmy Stone. He had a stupid hair cut and this stupid jumper he always used to wear and he himself was dumber than a sack of hammers, but he was a stone fox, looked like a carved Roman statue with rock hard abs to match, and every girl in the school just about died when he took up with the chav who lived on a council estate. Jimmy was so pretty, I dropped out of school and cleared out my savings so I could follow him and his band to New York. It ended about as well as you would imagine and that’s why I had seven roommates living in a three bedroom apartment when I died. Jimmy strung me along until my money ran out and then I was on my own. I managed...until I didn’t.”

“Is there a point in this story? Other than to torment us both?” Jamie asked wryly. “Because we’re out of bourbon and I’m starting to feel like I might need more if you’re going to keep talking about the pretty shitty boy.”

Rose rolled her eyes at him. “ Shut up. My point, which I know I got to the long way, was that yeah, Jimmy was pretty, but you know what he wasn’t? Smart. Funny. Self-aware. Kind. You know what he was? Awful at sex, like really bad. Like a small child learning how to play Nintendo kind of bad. I guess he just never bothered to get good at it because he never had problems attracting partners on the basis of his looks alone. The only orgasms I had during that relationship were the ones I would give myself in the shower after he fell asleep.”

Jamie shook his head at the visual. “Yikes.”

“Yikes indeed. But anyway...the nerdy ones. The quiet ones. The too loud or too excitable ones. The ones with the sorta funny ears or the slightly wonky eyes or the ones that no one ever pays attention to...they make better lovers than the Jimmy Stone’s of the world. Because they’re eager to please. Because they’re appreciative. Because they’re actually open enough to listen when you tell them what you want and because they actually had to cultivate personality and skills to survive. I’d take a man like that to bed over a Jimmy Stone any day of the week. The Jimmy Stone’s of the world are the type of guys who fantasize that they’re the Joker and you’re Harley Quinn and don’t see any issue with it,” she said, voice bitter with the traces of bourbon and bad memories.

Without warning, Jamie kissed her then. It was not the sort of brief, chaste kiss that might be exchanged between friends; her lips were slightly parted and she very nearly bit the tip of his tongue in shock. It was the first time anyone had kissed her in months, and she couldn’t help but squeak in surprise. Her palms slipped over the slightly damp grass and she fell backwards, taking Jamie with her in a tangle of limbs. They were only pressed against each other for a few awkward moments, but it was long for her to feel his arousal and for her heart start racing accordingly, before she shoved him inelegantly onto the grass.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he apologized, helping her off of the ground. “You said all those things about nerdy boys and I just thought…”

“It’s fine, it’s not you,” she said, cutting him off. She pointed over his shoulder. “It’s just...there’s a man over there in the bushes...uh masturbating, and he’s looking right at us.”

Jamie turned to look where she had pointed. “Oh him? That’s just Horse, he’s harmless, hangs out here when the rescue mission has no beds. Hey Horse!” Jamie called, waving at the half-naked voyeur in the bushes. The other man responded by flipping him off with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his member. Jamie shook his head and turned to look back at Rose. “Nice fella, honestly. A little strange.”

Rose raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh, do you think?”

“It’s after midnight on a Saturday in New York City, the park closed less than an hour ago, and somewhere that’s not the lawn right here is probably having last call. What else were you expecting?” Jamie asked, amused.

“Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t...all this,” she said, gesturing vaguely around them.

Jamie looked at his watch. “Bollocks. My reap is two minutes away and I still haven’t seen the mark. Jack’s got some nerve handing me a Post-it that just says Thompson Square Park after that mix-up yesterday morning.”

“What about Stroking Tom back there? Bet his name isn’t actually Horse. What’s the note say?” she asked, grabbing for it. “_H. van Statten_. Starts with an H, maybe it is that guy.”

“Maybe. Guess we better go look for him and find out. The sooner I handle this, the sooner we can go back to my place,” he said, walking quickly. He must have realized how that sounded, because he blushed. “Uh, so you can sleep, of course. You must be exhausted. Dying will really take the life outta you.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, you’re a genius alright.”

“Horse? Van Statten?” Jamie called cautiously. He waited for a reply before calling again. “Van Statten?”

“Are people that dumb that they really come when you call them to their dea...ah, nevermind,” she said, clamping her mouth shut. Maybe bourbon wasn’t a good choice.

“Oh Horse,” Jamie said softly, pulling the branches of the bush aside to reveal that the man who had been watching them earlier was collapsed on his side, a needle sticking out of him arm. Tentatively, Jamie reached out and ran his fingers along the man’s arm, releasing his soul. Beyond the bush, a ghostly impression of the person formerly known as Horse watched them with a blank expression on his face. “Take the needle out of my arm,” he implored. “Please, give me my dignity. I don’t know where my family is, but I wouldn’t want them to see me like that.”

Rose reached for the object, but Jamie stopped her. “We’re not allowed to interfere at the scene of a death.”

“But that’s awful!” she protested. “Removing the needle doesn’t change the fact that he died, but at least no one’s first thought would be that he’s just another junkie. Everyone deserves a last act of dignity and compassion and I didn’t get one. I’m at the bottom of the bloody river, no one might ever find me. But someone’s gonna find him and it doesn’t have to be with a needle sticking outta his arm. Whoever he was, he was more than just that.”

Jamie hesitated, but then let her go. “Ah, bloody hell, you’re not wrong. Besides, I didn’t follow the rules when I was alive, why start now?”

Carefully, Rose grabbed the needle and gently pulled it from the dead man’s arm. She picked the least nasty looking napkin out of a pile of rubbish that had blown against the metal waste can and gingerly wrapped it around the needle before shoving the bundle inside an empty soda can. 

Van Statten nodded tersely. “Thanks.”

Jamie and Rose walked with him, towards the exit of the park. “So why’d they call you Horse?” she asked. “That wasn’t your real name, was it?”

“Real name’s Henry. Horse was short for horse’s ass,” the dead man told her, right before he disappeared out the park exit, which looked strangely like the entrance to an exquisite museum. 

“Huh,” Jamie said. “Go figure.”

“I have so many questions,” Rose said, watching the entrance to the museum morph back into the exit of the park.

Jamie patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure you do. C’mon, let’s go back to my place. We can talk about it over tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I sat on this forever because I have a tendency to overthink. Hopefully I didn't do that here.


End file.
